


A Lover's Mark

by Kassiopeia



Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: Vengeance
Genre: 2nd Annual Spartacus Kink Meme, Biting, Canon Compliant, Drunken Shenanigans, Fluff and Smut, Jealousy, M/M, Marking, Possessive Behavior, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-29 18:38:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/690171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kassiopeia/pseuds/Kassiopeia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Saxa likes to tease and Agron is not impressed. Who does Saxa think she is, laying her hands all over his man?</p>
<p>Written for the 2nd Annual Spartacus Kink Meme.</p>
<p>Prompt: Agron/Nasir - possessiveness and jealousy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Lover's Mark

**Author's Note:**

> This work has been proof-read by myself dozens of times but not beta'd. Any mistakes are mine.

Agron slops down on a log beside his kin, careful not to tip his wine goblet lest a single drop be spilled. It is late at night, the sky a blanket of stars against an endless expanse of black. The fire illuminates the temple walls, casting flickering orange shadows on the faces gathered around the flame. Lugo tells a crude joke that has the Germans laughing raucously into the night air. Agron, who only catches the end of the joke, finds himself laughing along. He can only imagine what kinds of jokes his kin have been telling throughout the night.

The German has never been sorry that he rescued a boat filled with his own people. To hear others speak in his native tongue has made him feel more at home than he ever has since being captured as a slave; more at home since his brother, Duro, was slaughtered by traitorous Roman shits. And he would do it all over again if it spared him from watching the fucking Gauls drink their weight in wine.

Sensing new company, Donar turns to Agron and raises his goblet for a toast. Agron grins, clinking his goblet against his fellow gladiator’s.

_“Prost.”_

They drink.

The day has been long and Agron is content to sit quietly and listen to the bawdy stories his brothers have to tell. He has just come from strategizing with Spartacus which is always as much of a stress as it is a relief to be actually _doing_ something, as opposed to sitting like ducks, waiting for the Romans to attack. The laughter washes over him. His shoulders feel lighter than they have in days.

He watches as Spartacus, their ever fearless leader, descends the temple steps and makes his way toward a wooden man. He draws his gladius and begins to hack at imaginary Roman soldiers. Agron believes the man he envisions his blade striking to be Glabber. After all, no one else could bring such a furious glint to the Thracian’s eyes. For a moment, Agron considers offering himself as a sparring partner, but the thought is quickly pushed aside. He’s tired, exhausted. Partaking in a rebellion is far more taxing than any of Oenomaus’ drills could ever be.

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Agron tunes in to his kin again. There is a joke directed at Nemetes – something along the lines of there being minimum blood spatter when Saxa parted his body from his cock. The Germans burst into laughter again, Nemetes’ face burning redder than the fire’s embers.

At the mention of Saxa, Agron looks around to seek where the fierce blonde has gotten to. She usually drinks with the rest of the Germans, holding her own amidst the vulgar humour and scandalous stories of the men. It is indeed rare to find the gladiatrix apart from her Germanian comrades. But – Agron supposes – she must have more friends than the ones from her homeland. With that in mind, the gladiator’s head turns sharply when he hears a familiar shriek belonging to one of said friends: Mira.

His hand is already on the pommel of his gladius, body tense and prepared to sever as many Roman heads as it takes to ensure the woman is safe. He calms when he realizes the shriek is not one of panic, but of merriment instead. The brunette is leaning heavily on Naevia’s shoulder and the two are wiping tears of amusement from their eyes. They’re drunk, that’s easy to tell. Mira rarely smiles, much to Agron’s disappointment. He has grown to care for the woman like a sister, but he supposes sadness is what comes from falling in love with a man who will never love you back.

He continues to watch, wondering what else (besides wine) has gotten such a joyous reaction from Mira on this darkening night. He understands upon catching sight of long curly blonde hair. Ah, just the head he had been searching for. Saxa currently has her hands raised above her head, wrists twined together, her hips swaying as she dances to a non-existent beat. From where he is seated, Agron can see that she is giving someone a rather enthusiastic lap dance, much to the delight of her audience.

Definitely drunk then.

He watches with amusement as she lowers herself down, sensually grinding her hips against her companion’s. An unfortunate bastard, Agron muses. Nemetes is sure to be out for blood when he finds out and he personally considers anyone who catches the blonde’s fancy to be a goner. No man with half a brain would try to resist the gladiatrix’ charms for she is more vicious when angered than any of her male counterparts.

His fascination catches Donar’s attention and he too turns to watch the spectacle unfold. They share a knowing glance and take a drink for the sorry sod. Once again, Agron shakes his head and sighs, about to turn away before he sees too much, when Mira catches his eye and gasps, reaching for Saxa and calling out words he cannot hear.

Agron is confused. At least he is until the blonde looks back over her shoulder and stares at him with a taunting smile. With her body leaned slightly to the side in order for her to face him, the German can finally see her poor victim; a victim whose dark eyes sparkle with laughter as he weakly tries to push her away; a victim who is known very well to Agron.

Nasir.

Beside him, Donar chokes on his wine, burgundy liquid spraying out of his mouth and onto the sand. He claps a pitying hand on Agron’s shoulder and practically howls. All the while, Saxa continues her lap dance, her eyes never straying from Agron’s.

The German can feel the blood rushing to his face, the previous amusement quickly turning into the desire to hit something. But he manages to control himself - not because he wouldn’t hit Saxa (he would if he were sure he could take her) – but because he will not give her the satisfaction of knowing he is quite possibly jealous. He feels his eyebrow twitch and the vein in his neck throbs in anger. Nasir is his and his alone. Agron is the only one who has the right to touch him the way Saxa is now, everyone in this whole damn rebellion knows that. Saxa only wants to get a rise out of him, he assures himself, and he won’t give in. He won’t…

The blonde spares him a wink before she settles down between Nasir’s knees. By now, Nasir is aware that his lover is watching and it only serves to make his laughter more jubilant. Brown eyes meet green, daring one German gladiator to make a move, to prove whether he is jealous or not.

Agron takes a sip of his wine, staring back, refusing to show weakness. He will watch until Nasir signals defeat, for he knows in his heart of hearts that Nasir would never let the gladiatrix truly have him. Nasir loves him just as much as he loves Nasir. His lover would never do such a thing – or so that is the hope. For a second, Agron worries that Nasir is drunk enough to let Saxa have her way with him. His stare falters and the beginnings of a grin show on the Syrian’s face. The German is quick to neutralize his features once again. He sits back and accepts the challenge.

Saxa pushes Nasir back onto his elbows, focused on the task at hand rather than the battle of wills going on above her. With a tipsy giggle, she leans forward and places a kiss on Nasir’s neck. He startles, but she pulls him closer, let’s her hand get a grip on his dark hair. The gladiatrix stifles a laugh for she can practically feel Agron’s heated glare burning holes through her. Smirking, she sticks her tongue out and begins to lick circles over her friend’s lightly muscled chest, her other hand sneaking up to tease the skin above his subligaria.

Agron’s jaw tenses as the blonde descends upon his lover. He glares as her hands and mouth move over his body, leaving behind trails of glistening, tainted saliva. At this point, Agron is unaware of everything around him except for his rage. He watches intently, determined to be the victor of this game even if his gut feels as if it’s being cut from his abdomen.

It is only when Saxa rises up to place a kiss at the corner of Nasir’s mouth that Agron loses it. There’s a blur of images (Nasir’s proud grin, Saxa doubling over in laughter, Mira and Naevia looking fearful for their friends) and the German is unaware that his body has moved at all until he finds himself and Nasir alone inside the temple.

The Syrian is obviously trying to keep a straight face, but he seems to be failing. He’s biting his lip in a way that has absolutely no right to be so charming, and every few seconds, his body lurches with the force of escaped giggles. Agron is not amused. The gladiator is torn between pouting at his own pathetic defeat and shaking Nasir before running out to challenge Saxa to a duel. He’s no longer worried that she might beat him for she has crossed the line and all he wants to do now is hit something, or someone.

But he settles for none of the above.

Instead, Agron throws himself forward, crushing Nasir’s body between himself and the wall. Their lips meet in a bruising kiss, Nasir’s head thumping against the stone. The taste of blood is in his mouth though he has no idea whose it is. It could be his or it could be Nasir’s; it doesn’t matter much anyway. He spares no thought to Nasir’s discomfort. His only wish is to claim this man, to remind himself and everyone else in this blasted temple that Nasir belongs to him.

Their teeth clash and when they part, they are both gasping for air. Agron only takes a few short breaths before leaning in to capture Nasir’s mouth again. Their kisses are sloppy and wet, careless. Agron can already feel his lips swelling.

Without warning, the German tears himself away from his lover’s lips and begins to suckle down the side of his face. His tongue traces over the patterns Saxa previously made on his neck, washing away any and all of her traces on him. He rushes, wanting for his lover to be completely his again and in the shortest amount of time possible. Nasir groans, arching up into the gladiator’s mouth regardless of how sticky he is with spit. The Syrian’s hand tangles in brown hair, pulling Agron close until he is practically suffocating against his skin.

Rushed hands undo Nasir’s subligaria before stroking him roughly. He’s hard as a rock already. The movements are sharp, jerking twists that have his toes curling and his fists clenching tightly. Agron does not take his time and he is not gentle in the least. As he feels his lover coming closer to his release, he sinks his teeth into the skin above Nasir’s heart, marking him. He draws blood. Nasir’s hisses as he spills his seed generously into the German’s hand, a soundless scream tearing from his lips.

Agron collapses on his knees, falling forward against Nasir’s stomach, panting and sweating. His own subligaria is damp with release. The Syrian’s hand, once harsh, now pets his head soothingly.

“I’m sorry,” Agron apologizes once he catches his breath.

Nasir shakes his head and smiles adoringly down at his gladiator.

“Do not apologize. I should not have played that sort of game with you. It was cruel.” His hand continues to stroke through Agron’s hair.

The German acknowledges this fact (and wholeheartedly agrees) but cannot seem to ease the guilt from his mind.

“I should not have bit you,” he argues, “Look. You bleed.”

The Syrian gazes down at his chest, swiping at the blood with a forefinger and staring at it in wonder.

“Just a scratch, my love,” he assures.

Agron does not hesitate to point out that the bite will probably scar, but Nasir is no more bothered than he was before.

“So I am marked then. What better way to remind all others that I am yours?”

At this, the gladiator’s worries are appeased. Nasir has always been the more rational of the two. As rebels, they bleed on a daily basis. Surely this is nothing Nasir can’t handle.

With a nod, Agron rises to his feet, pulling his lover into a hug.

“I am sorry nonetheless,” he mumbles into the Syrian’s hair, feeling all the tension leave his body, “-and one day you must return the favour. We cannot have all knowing that you are spoken for and not I.”

Nasir chuckles.

“Indeed.”

**Author's Note:**

> "Prost" is the German equivalent of "cheers!" (at least according to Google).


End file.
